S W A G A Z I N E ISSN: 1522-7707 Issue Five Winter 1998 http://www.swagazine.com/ --- In this issue . . . POETRY Swagman / Yellow 4 Liz Kane / Gravy Zeylan / Cage of Arms Psyche / How We Go About It Doug Tanoury / Racing Form Poems Jillian Firth / Swallow Lawrence Norton / You A. O'Neil / Easy Airalin / Another Tiny Night Mordrak / Abstract Liquid Extract Michael Hoerman / Morning Poem From The Ozarks Elizabeth Germanio / Fallen Bill the Cat / Cat Poems PROSE Swagman / Island Afternoon Zepp / A Life Sentence Jillian Firth / A Lovely Day Zeylan / Cosmic Charlie Luminary Coremaster / The Death of Luminary Coremaster SWAG Brian Rhinehart / Wasteland: Tales of the Leveler Contributors / Quotes & Bios Submission Information --- Swagman Yellow 4 Last rays of afternoon sun Illuminate yellow crepe paper streamers Suspended from the ceiling, Draping down the kitchen wall Casting shadows blending with twilight yesterday's dreams barely visible Spent, forgotten listless and limp Remembering My face rolls into a smile of faded decorations and failing sunlight --- Liz Kane Gravy. I decided to take a bath. Therapeutic, I thought as I drew the water. One foot in, and another, lay down, and listen to the music. Industrial machine throbbing. Off-key piano. Incense burning, three drinks in me. I thought of him, and sipped my drink. I like him. Yeah... The water has an ebb to it, it matches my heart beat, and I marvel at the fact my internal organ is making this wave in my tub. Waves towards my feet and back towards my head. A sleepy rhythm. I look to my left at the rim of the tub and a red centipede is working it's way out from one of the holes in the caulking to another red rust stained hole in the caulking in the rim of the tub. I marvel at it's feet and think about killing it. It's rear antenna waving insultingly at me as it's back-end enters and exits another rust stained hole in the caulking. Bugs, I thought, and sipped my wine. The world went sideways and... I thought more about him. We'll have 3 children, and have a farm. Two boys and a girl. We'll have chickens, and horses, and a few cows, and raise the kids up right. I'm spreading my toes on the spigot, and thinking of a possible good life. I'm wearing a dress with a spring pattern, and the children are running about, playing with the farm animals, and I call to them, and say, "Come on in, dinner is served." They run in, and he is already in asking for the gravy on his meat. I run to the stove, smiling, and bring on the gravy boat. I see that centipede farther down the rim of the tub, back feelers waving. I splash some water on it and it scurries on to the next red stained caulking hole. Damn bugs. Gotta get some raid on this caulking. The children are smiling and waiting to be served. I bring on their portions and he asks again for the gravy, his smile strained. "You know I like my gravy on my meat." "It's in front of you, John," I say, smiling, gesturing with the gravy boat. I pour it on his meat, and the children smile and say, "Thank you, mama, for the fine meal you gave us!" They smile at me un-falteringly. My toes are reflected in water, making my feet look as if I have ten toes in a circular pattern. "HA -- try and fit these feet, Kenneth Cole!" I laugh and sip more wine. I scan the rim of the tub for bugs, but no shows. "The gravy's cold. I can't eat this. It needs it to be warmer. I work hard enough to not come home to cold gravy..." The children are giggling to themselves, a warm family private secret. They hold out their plates to accept the warmer gravy. I run to the stove, and look behind me; they all have their plates up, John waving his fist with a plate in his left hand, the children laughing and waving their plates. The gravy is cold on the stove, and I turn on the burner. It's cold. How can I face them? The red centipede is back and crawls lazily, aggressively on the tub's rim. I squish it with my big toe. Damn parasite. I revel in the fact my heart is still making a rhythm in the water. I must have a good heart. I get up and towel off. --- Zeylan Cage of Arms The lights dim as the cinema begins. She moves as a parade of jasmine and winter breath and I am the last dance of hornets losing stingers. Lights, camera, action. She offers up a smile, an embrace All her defenses and nervous mysteries. I devour these gifts, And suddenly I am trapped within her cage of arms, paralyzed, hungry. The world becomes a teeming collection of noises and intrusions, invading our familiar coil. Somewhere, The sea level rises, A streetlight flickers and goes out, followed by another. I join in their obvious worship, lost in a wilderness tamed by her bitter smile; her damning embrace; the fall of her gentle rain. A turn of the head, wicked, satisfied, she opens her cage and releases me and disappears in a dizzying repose. Jump cut. The camera follows her down the boulevard. Sirens. Footsteps grow quiet. All that I am fades to black. --- Psyche How We Go About It There are many ways to escape. A girl buys a 3rd class ticket to New York City because her mother went to high school in Manhattan & because she needs to scrape down the sidewalk & smell the poetry rise from the cracks in the pavement, hear the echoing rise & fall of her sneakers in museum halls & drink coffee where Andy Warhol hung out. & the same girl could miss her period, & in the cold white fluorescence of her bathroom, between her beating heart & the cold beads on her forehead, she smiles because she'd do anything for some life in her gut & the stabbing clench of her morning vomit will prove she can still feel. There are many ways to escape, & here is what it all comes down to: when finally she is struck on the street, caught in the electric flash of cars & the red plastic announcement in the parking meter: time expired she will need to realize what is enough. There are many ways and it is enough it is enough to know that in spite of it all she is a body able to keep someone else warm. --- Doug Tanoury Racing Form Poems (Poem titles were taken from the names of horses in a race results.) Six Brass Buttons I remember his uniform In my bedroom closet as a boy. The jacket's sleeves lit up With Sergeant Major stripes. Its weight slowly bending The wire hanger. Fields Of Silk Her bed of love's pink touches Were dreams are born, Fantasies made flesh, A place of soft laughter, Peaceful darkness. Our Three Wishes It was simple once. I used to practice wishing, Rehearsing wishes Confident of each one, Certain of all three, But now It's grown complicated. I'm not so certain and Old desires no longer Hold power over me. I now understand The danger of One wish granted. Night Touch Evenings are cold but clear. Stars and moon light the sky. The Belt of Orion shines above My neighbor's house, the Laotian, Who's wife knows so little English. I wish I knew the name of just one star. Echostalkingwillow I remember a willow In my yard as a child Its branches weeping Way to the ground, And me hiding in them, Wondering what could Cause a tree to cry. Mr. Lucky I've lived simply All these years, "Builds character" I'd said, But now I'm worried. I hear good fortune Breaking down My door. On Her Own No children, No man, Only herself To care for. Her comings And goings Her own Choices. When I see her In a doorway, I always wonder: Coming? Going? Cedarwood Spirit In the chest at the foot of the bed, Where the flannel sheets And winter quilts are kept in summer, I find the crocheted tablecloth She made and the crystal candelabra From her dining room and I miss her, Regretting it's been so long Since I've looked in this chest. Radio Flyer The paint on the wagon In the garage has faded And it's now more pink Than red Rust forms a halo Around each bolt's head and The axle squeals as the Wheels turn. The children have grown And haven't played with it In many years, but I Still keep it, Always making Room for it When I clean the garage Each spring and fall. Mime Artist There is a part of me That cannot speak, That feels things I cannot express in words, But only in exaggerated gesture, White-faced makeup, Painted lips and stylized eyes. I often bite my lips, Stomp my feet in anger, Because I can't convey The message of what I want, What I really need and so I Continue to grope an invisible wall For an opening that can't Be seen but only felt. Daiquiri Blue Moon I often sit in the yard On summer nights, on A wooden sun chair that I built from scrap. I think about the things In the past that brought Me here, the events that Shaped this moment, the Things I did or did not. I can count the turning points, And say if not that, not this, But I'm not so sure of water- Sheds, for I mistrust them. It's little insignificant Moments that grow and Build in importance like The eyes of a man and woman That meet quite by accident. Time Fire Yesterday's ablaze, Flames licking Across today And smoke Obscures tomorrow. Soon everything I have known, Will know, Now know, Will be consumed, All transformed to ash Except not this, Not these, Not them. --- Jillian Firth Swallow It comes up from below the thought that works to surface like an itch and sets my face to twitching in an effort to prevent my traitorous mouth from snitching swallow thoughts that bubble up from hidden places hollow don't share these thoughts with anybody swallow swallow swallow And the swallow builds her nest in caves from pieces of the life she saves --- Lawrence Norton You four rooms drafty and dark beating to timeless reason harmless gratification of desire shining of street light on the wet concrete holds more majesty by mere thought of you. laughing eyes dance unveiled through the smoke filled teeth shut tight in hesitation for the mere sight of you hand stretches in twisted knot of addicts needle embrace of veins chased by love's sweet poison as caught in the touch of you flowers embrace the sun to mother's garden where the grass, green folded under us sings hymns to you and night powder torn onto the lips carries brilliant breath to sigh in the last hours before like the stars laughing for the moon I am with you --- A. O'Neil Easy it's getting easier to slip through the days watch weather eat drink my coffee laugh (out loud) to speak of dreams with other ears and picture being someone else's angel. it's getting easier to slide from one sunset to the other without your hands to keep me solid (not some straggling fragment of a blood-red cloud) and to smile at your mighty grin two-dimensional and glossy, glossy grin but when your voice comes to me like some broken thing from a dream and so tired from weary flight and so terribly familiar I race to the floor of my cutting-room and find it harder and harder to piece you together --- Airalin Another Tiny Night another tiny night wasted inside it never gets any easier does it i just want to push that sun down must be so down, if i'm willing to sun drown stupid tiny lights and again, another lonely fight no explanations anymore i guess he just wants to break this bond but i know it's life he's really after break that sun down -- the light doesn't burn when you're down the burning inside the apathetic try another lonely night no reason to fight but he turns that key for me with all his waking deaths, it's amazing he wakes up at all what is love to this consummation his rising tide of destruction a sin a thousand for the morning a pride a lamb's wool for his mourning a tryst with lies beneath, underneath that sun drop me down in, i'm burning in there is something called trying that's the secret to living and sure, you bleed but who cares when you're breathing and they all forget so easily and miss the scream i'm going to give them all mirrors such pretty darlings if only they'd look at themselves please and here is another sinless morning some lie to push down the sun it goes down and i drown heart claws to the surface and i still find no sound --- Mordrak Abstract Liquid Extract once, the days flowed like liquid metal through shadows iron-cast in twilight. i was left only to recall an image of strangers tending to pianos playing endless into night. back when a gathering collects quietly around a monument to dead heroes of empty wars, i got lost and strayed off the wayward ways that marked the path to question-marked doors. whoever asked about non-existent answerables stood naked to a veiled census, standing alone when unknown handles became objects of intolerables to the misinformed senseless. he did not drop tears with the metal clouds that often accompany a social death, only to echo endlessly the same song that's still carried on the same confused breath. like a story of an innocent traveling experience giving birth to wisdom and knowledge, while the scabs of pains digging into the skin as one pushes himself slowly over the edge. futures fade as free will concedes to programmed cells to perpetuate the evolutionary sinkhole, to the end of liquid stories waiting to be retold again of a life lived far from normal. so i got lost and strayed to stand naked in the presence of the birth of wisdom, as the same futures become the same monotonous beat on the same monotonous drums. i have to feel content living in the liquid drama or learn again how to feel, resigned to a choice already made to live content in my shiftless world unreal... --- Michael Hoerman Morning Poem From The Ozarks She came to me Like morning birds After a long night When the dogs barked But couldn't get at it Yes, like morning birds A chorus of song Bright and beautiful When the sun hovers Just below the horizon Oh, sweet morning birds! Though the dogs still bark It could be petting them now And they wouldn't know the difference For all they're worth It changes when she hears the song - for Robert Bly --- Elizabeth Germanio Fallen My eyes sweep across the darkness. The burning stars float and dance. Light breaks into my vision like fire. I look from left to right; black sky Grazing over my head, denies me sleep. I watch as wilderness begins to grow. I tell you now, here, not only trees grow. My mind becomes sure of what lives in darkness. As I shiver in my blankets meant only for sleep, Alone I know the wind and forest as they dance To a wild tune that travels up to meet the sky In an ancient rhythm created by the gods of fire. Closer and closer to the ashes of my fire, Faster and faster, the sounds will only grow. I came here alone to find my private sky. I knew of beasts but did not trust in darkness. I thought without fear I could laugh and dance. Now desperately I fear my eternal sleep. I cry out as teardrops mark my lack of sleep. They told me how its claws shred hope like fire. Before I left I thought I could evade the dance Of fear. Never knowing how I should grow, I felt nothing awful and had no knowledge of darkness. Yelling and screaming, now I reach to the sky. No stars give me comfort, no life in the sky, And no one to touch me in my sleep. Blanketed coldly by the darkness, Below me I can almost feel the sweet fire, And images of places I never dreamed of grow. There sinners and fallen angels wickedly dance, And among the sinners I must find my place to dance, Where I fall from the light, where I fall from the sky. The beast touches me. I feel wickedness grow. Warmth comforts me. I am myself in sleep. Slowly I lie back in the dead particles of my fire And alone I sigh, curling up with my darkness. Sweet sleep carries me through flames of fire. The sky drips red and the flaming stars grow. I throw back my head and dance in the darkness. --- Bill the Cat Cat Poems Like Darwin on the Beagle, Bill agreed to board a ship; the cargo, though illegal, augured for a well-earned trip. The captain's name was Charon -- quite an odd one, cold and silent; the seascape looked so barren, at least Bill discerned no island. The rhythm of the ocean soon began to make him heave; the world he was approachin' was the one he'd never leave. AcK. Bill's Super-Ego's laid to rest, his Id is in control; impulses so long-suppressed come leaping from his soul. If you say he's affable, it's something you'll retract; if you think he's rational, you're falling for an act. All the things he's smothered now emerge to make him mad; he's going to screw his mother, and annihilate his dad. Spffft! Bill names his favorite poison, and speaks his favorite word; he knows it may destroy him, and yet he's undeterred. So laud him for his bravery, commend him for his verve; maybe he's unsavory, but he's got lots o' nerve. He cares not what the price is, he knows not what he spends; he worships Dionysus, his devotion knows no end. Pffffbt. Just to flaunt his education, Bill quotes Aristotle: "Everything in moderation" has become his motto. He'll down a mere three sixes, while he used to quaff a case; economize his fixes, and his herb intake is paced. Discipline should be observed, it's always wrong to waste; oranges should be conserved, so drink your vodka straight. ffpt. Bill's acts are often sordid and these deeds exact a toll; his kids are all aborted, and his bridge obscures a troll. His memory is vacant and his catnip-stash is gone; maybe he's the vomit-belching vagrant on your lawn. Life is evanescent so each plum becomes a prune; every fertile crescent will with tumbleweeds be strewn. Tpftpt. Babies need a nursery conducive to their blooming; parents, don't be cursory, your job is all-consuming. Deal with baby's every whim, and disregard the bills; soon you will rely on him, or else resort to pills. Finally, when you exhale, and issue forth a cloud, know your offspring hasn't failed, in fact it's made you proud. fffffffpt. Bill's doctors are discouraging: "You're not our favorite patient"; things that he finds nourishing effect hallucinations. He gawks at all the nurses, and he hopes they'll ask for samples; he gets a lot of curses, 'cause his samples are too ample. Why do they give Bill a shove, and treat him like a villain? He just needs a little love, and lots of penicillin. SpfaCt. Bill's allies voice intense concern, his adversaries, glee; his road is on its final turn, he's flicked his final flea. Unfounded are Bill's feeble hopes, contorted are his features; fissured are his isotopes, mutated are his creatures. His corpuscles have been destroyed, his blood's no longer red; if Bill ever gets employed, he'll front the Grateful Dead. Ack-spffit-ack. Bill's had a few incisions with no local anasthetic; he's witnessed psychic visions, but their insights were pathetic. He's got a fine ambition for a halo 'round his head; could it be he's fishing for a catch that's long-since dead? He dreams about a Windex-shine where things are nice and neat; submerged in brackish pools of brine, he thinks he tastes defeat. Phbbbbbt. Tft. Act. Spft. Bill's fly is trapped in amber, and his cops enforce no laws; his trumpet's got bad timbre so he gets no warm applause. His sunset's never pretty, and his rainbow's black and white; his talk is never witty, and his presence no delight. His bees take too much pollen and his morphine cures no pain; his meteor has fallen, and no life does it contain. Ack. AcK. AcK. spfFt! Are the folks mistaken who assert that Bill's deranged? Bathing he's forsaken and his garments go unchanged. His hygiene has been sliding and he hasn't shaved in weeks; soon he'll be residing with the Hare Krishna freaks. He's learned some painful lessons is therefore ever-wincing; Bill's derelict impression is remarkably convincing. SpFaCt!!!!!!!!!!!!! --- Swagman Island Afternoon "Discovery Tours Center Catalina Dept Store Top Hat Liquor Pirrone's Confetti-Sundries Hotel Vista Del Mar Buoys & Gulls Menswear High Tide Trades Edgewater Hotel Catalina Souvenier Shop El Galleon Hotel MacRae Catalina by the Sea Souvenir Gifts Catalina Drug Store," read signs facing my terra-cotta tile bench seat upon a red brick footing surrounding an 8ft square stucco planter box containing a big shade tree, a perfect spot to see all the shapes and sizes in the steady stream of people passing by my favorite spot in my favorite block along Avalon's waterfront esplanade. I'm baking in the late afternoon sun. This morning, this same seat was cold from the night but now it radiates the heat of daylong sunshine. I see a man walk with his arm draped over a woman's shoulder, seems not out of love, seems more like an expression of possession. A little girl, about 4 years old, makes a bee-line dash for the sand, ignoring her mother's calls to stop. Seconds later another little girl and another mother play out an identical scene. But I just had to move to the shade, being drenched in sweat & my ass burning from the sun fried terra-cotta bench. Now a cool breeze blows through my clothes making them pleasantly cool, only my sun burnt skin radiates heat. A woman dressed in all white is taking a tourist picture of her man, making him twist in gyrations to fit a tall palm tree into frame. Nearby, three girls take a turn each, taking pictures of the other two, all the time scolding, posing, and snapping frames. I think of volunteering to take their camera and snap a picture of the 3 of them together, but I do not. Too lazy, too shy. Most people are flowing towards the cattle-boat exit spot for their brief voyage back to the mainland. Others are moving towards hotels, shops are fixing to close for the day and restaurants are beginning to hop. Irridescent backed pigeons (air rats) are walking about oblivious to all the people. An old skinny couple, wife with one crutch, pass by too quickly for a crutch to make sense. A sad woman walks past with a sullen sneer. Another passes wearing spike pumps and a summer cotton bag dress looking too weird in a land of flats and sandals. A woman wearing navy sweatpants, white top covered with a chambray workshirt comes to sit near my spot to smoke a cigarette. I am writing these notes with a golf score keeping pencil the skipper got when he shot a round. I tire of sharpening it with my knife so I go into the Confetti-Sundries store to buy a pen and here she is, in "my" clothes, selling me a pen. I had noticed her earlier sitting on "my" planter box terra cotta bench but I was too lazy, too shy to speak up, but here in my face, I just had to gig her about stealing "my" clothes. I tell her she is wearing "my uniform" and she looks puzzled until she notices my white polo shirt covered with a chambray workshirt and navy shorts - I tell her my navy sweatpants are on my boat - we even have on the same shoes, blue flaps.. The place has really thinned out, it's mostly locals or stayovers now. There is a permanent population of 2600 plus over 1000 illegals living in canyons. Avalon has come to the end of a busy day. The sun is falling behind the ring of rough hills forming the natural amphitheater in which nestles the small town, bowl-like and secure with five different watersheds feeding into the harbor. My crew-mate on the boat advises me that my chambray shirt is really a fake. What I need, says he, is real Egyptian cotton to possess the bona fide item. He says if you could find one here it would cost over a hundred bucks. He says you can find them for cheap in Paris and if he ever goes there, he'll bring back 50 of them and give me one. Such a display of generosity is touching to say the least, the very least. --- Zepp A Life Sentence I rented a cat one day when the persiflage wouldn't fly named Enid, who, like all cats, stood on ceremony and insisted that I call him The Fifteenth Earl of Venenidsgate at Lochhamptonrow and who told me, "I dated Di, you know," and then The Fifteenth Earl of Venenidsgate at Lochhamptonrow added that perhaps I could work on that, since anything about Di would sell, what with her not being quite alive anymore, and I was the image of polite attention bordering on contempt while The Fifteenth Earl of Venenidsgate at Lochhamptonrow licked at his nether regions and considered the possibility that any human who would rent him doubtlessly did need his help and succor, not spelled sucker because no good English cat like The Fifteenth Earl of Venenidsgate at Lochhamptonrow would use such a word except of course around lowly borne like me but I digress while he licks and I nearly forgot to say that I write fiction but very poorly and the idea was that cats, being wise, could help me to write fiction that was still poor but much more likely to sell because it had a cat in it although once I got him home I recognized that The Fifteenth Earl of Venenidsgate at Lochhamptonrow was not an ordinary cat and was in fact a complete sodding bastard of a cat who was to snobbery what Don Rickles was to insults and I had just about made up my mind to take him back and demand a refund when The Fifteenth Earl of Venenidsgate at Lochhamptonrow pulled a wallet out of his anal gland which is where cats keep their wallets you big silly and showed me a picture and goddamn if he wasn't sitting in Di's lap getting stroked by the then living princess and about then I decided that I had better pay attention because any writer who has got both a cat and princess died to play with is gonna make a million bucks and all I really needed in addition to all that was proof that Die was seeing Elvis on the side and so I mentioned this to The Fifteenth Earl of Venenidsgate at Lochhamptonrow and he looked smug -- OK, SMUGGER -- and pulled out another picture with Dead and Deader in blue suede shoes together which would have been the happy happy retirement dream photo for every mama and papa Ratzi outfit in the uncivilized world, but then I realized that the reality of such a photo was exactly the same as having a talking cat named The Fifteenth Earl of Venenidsgate at Lochhamptonrow, except of course that I did, and this confused me for a moment, until I thought to myself, wait a minute, I live on a volcano, so why don't I just take the cat and throw him in the fucking volcano and call him a sacrifice, using the cat since the only thing virgin is the first page of my next novel, and volcanoes and critics are both tough on such things, but then The Fifteenth Earl of Venenidsgate at Lochhamptonrow brought me to heel by pointing out that he was in fact a talking cat, which caused me to stop and say, oh yeah, and glance hopefully in the direction of my typewriter, and here I am with pictures of deader and deadest and a talking cat who isn't residing inside a volcano, and I can't make a best-seller out of that, which leaves me wondering if I shouldn't get out of the writing business altogether and sell snow removal implements of injustice to the folks upon whose head the snow, but not my prose, is falling, and it is snow and not ashes from the volcano and the goddamn cat is still talking, only now he's telling me to cease and desist all thoughts of immolation of the feline line or he'll piss in my typewriter and that will be that for that and after a couple of minutes thought and watching the snow fall I decided I would rather have an unlikely plot outline instead of a dead, scalded cat named The Fifteenth Earl of Venenidsgate at Lochhamptonrow, who does not live in a volcano with dead celebrities or at least they would be celebrities except that they are, as mentioned, dead, and therefore not celebrities or even in my novel yet and it's starting to snow -- ash, whatever -- really hard and The Fifteenth Earl of Venenidsgate at Lochhamptonrow is gazing out at this with undisguised contempt, and the photos are still there (I can see them, except I can't see what's on them) and The Fifteenth Earl of Venenidsgate at Lochhamptonrow is telling me that if I want to write the great western novel that will save civilization I only have to be the great western novelist who will save civilization and the rest is, as they say, in the anal sack, and I shouldn't be talking to cats about pictures of Very Dead and Stone Dead, and how anybody who would throw a live cat into a volcano is a real ash hole, and then the white reaches the top of the window and both The Fifteenth Earl of Venenidsgate at Lochhamptonrow and the lights go out. --- Jillian Firth A Lovely Day I entered the park as an afterthought. Around a small enclosure intended for basking and pigeon feeding were three benches of the cement variety with no backs and stubby legs that made them rather close to the ground. Each bench was occupied by an elderly woman. As I approached the bench nearest to me and sat down, I asked the woman there if she minded if I sat next to her, and she didn't answer me, but grunted her disapproval and looked the other way. I took notice of the fact that she had on what appeared to be at least three layers of clothing and wondered if she were cold why she chose to sit in the shade. Neither of us spoke for several minutes, and as I was thinking my own thoughts I was suddenly startled when she sharply rapped my ankle with her cane, and then lifted it sword-like and pointed in the direction of the lake. "You see that woman over there?" "Over where?" "Over there, you fool. Over there." I looked more diligently, and noticed a rather hunched over woman strolling in the path that encircled the lake. "Yes, I see her", I replied. "That's Lucy. She comes into my house at night and steals things out of my pantry. Cookies. And tuna fish. I haven't been able to catch her in the act yet, but when I do, she'll be very sorry." I wasn't sure what to say. "Oh", I replied. "I'm sorry to hear that." She started to say something else, but then winced as though in pain and settled for mumbling something I couldn't make out. "Are you alright?" "No, I'm not alright. I'm miserable. Damned doctors can't figure out what's wrong with me. They say it's just old age but I know it's something more. Damned idiots. They'll let anyone be a doctor these days." She spent several moments shifting and grunting in order to better illustrate her apparent discomfort. I found myself apologizing again. "Can I help? Is there anything I can do?" "You? Why would you be able to help? Who are you, anyway? Do you know Gladys? Did Gladys send you? She's so nosy. She's always meddling in other people's affairs, the fucking bitch." I drew back, alarmed, not so much by the language, but by the utter hatred that propelled those words from her mouth, with the force it would take to rid your stomach of rancid food. As I made no attempt to reply, she once again turned away in disapproval. "I feel I've unintentionally disturbed you. I'll leave you to your thoughts." She appeared to take no notice of my departure. I thought of walking around the lake, but felt distressed by the conversation that had just transpired and sought to sit down once again. The next bench looked inviting, and I took a seat by a woman quite absorbed in tossing tiny pieces of bread to the birds, tearing off the morsels from a very stale looking loaf. I had and inkling that she glanced at me a bit fretfully. I tilted my head back to seek the sun, but found that while this bench was not completely shaded, the leaves of a large elm tree dotted us with shadows. Still, it seemed pleasant. After several moments, I felt more than saw the woman next to me packing up her belongings as if to go. "I thought you might like this bench to yourself", she said. "Oh, no. Quite the contrary. I'd enjoy the company." "Oh. Well, if you really don't mind." It occurred to me as she settled back down and resumed her pigeon feeding that, after all, I had invaded her territory and perhaps I should move. "I can sit elsewhere, if you'd like." "Oh, no. No, no, no. I've really been taking up space on this bench long enough." Once again, she appeared to be readying herself to leave, and I felt compelled to convince her that she had a perfect right to stay. "Please, sit down. There's plenty of room on this bench for both of us." "Well, if you insist." She sat again, but seemed unsure of the arrangement. Most of the pigeons had wandered off by this time, but as her hands began to feed those that remained, a small crowd of them once again gathered at our feet. They were grey and almost lifeless looking, one hardly distinguishable from the other. We both sat watching as they pecked about. "I baked this bread three weeks ago, but it really wasn't very good, and nobody ate it, so I thought the birds might enjoy it". "The birds certainly seem to like it", I replied, trying to sound cheerful. "Do you have a big family?" "Oh, no; well, yes, but I live alone now. My husband, Fred, I lost him almost ten years ago. The kids come to see me when they can, but they are so very busy...they have their families..." Her thought seemed to trail off unfinished. The last of the bread hit the ground and disappeared into the beak of a pigeon. I felt the sudden urge to reach over and touch this woman, to connect with her in some subtle way, but before I could act on the impulse she had risen from the bench saying, "I really should be going now" and took off in the direction of some squat, gray buildings that stood on the east side of the little park. I watched her leave with a great sadness, one that I couldn't completely comprehend. I had no right to feel sorry for this woman. I sat alone for several moments, absorbing the impact of a stranger. Upon glancing up, I noticed the woman on the third bench looking at me, smiling. "Would you like to come and sit by me?" I felt an emotion I can only describe as gratitude. As I rose and walked to her bench, I noticed the brightly colored afghan she had spread beneath her to sit upon and the open book in her lap. She was wearing a large-brimmed hat to protect her face from the sun. "You remind me so much of my granddaughter. You're very pretty." I think I may have blushed. "What are you reading?" "Something my son sent me last week. Although, I must admit, I've barely read a page. I feels so good to just sit here." "Yes. Yes it does." I relaxed and let the sun warm my face. It was a lovely day. --- Zeylan Cosmic Charlie Charlie's wife came into the room without him noticing, as usual. He was busy typing on the computer, connected to a bulletin board system on the other side of town, entering a message in a debate with another user about how stupid he thought the guy was and to what degree. Charlie was involved in his thought process and completely oblivious to her arrival. Lauren stood behind him for a few seconds, waiting for acknowledgement. "Which one of these pots do you like better for the kitchen window?" she asked, finally. "The yellow one or the green one? Im not sure about the color." "Uh-huh," he answered, trying not to lose his train of thought. "Its not a yes or no question, Charlie. Please turn around." Charlie turned slightly in his chair and took his eyes off the screen. "What?" "The pots?" She wiggled the pots in her hands. He looked at the pots. "Yes, those are pots." "The color, dummy." He looked at the pots again. "That one is yellow," he said, "and that one is green." "I know what colors they are!" Lauren shouted. "Im asking you which one you like better for the kitchen!" "I dont know, pick whichever one you like best," he shouted back. "Im not asking which one I like! I already know which one I like! Im asking which one you like!" She let out a sigh in exasperation. "Fine then," Charlie said, studying the pots for a moment. "Um... I like the green one." Lauren furrowed her brow and glared at him. "But the green one doesnt go with the oven." "Then why the hell did you ask me!" he shouted, waving his arms wildly. "If you like the yellow one, use the yellow one!" "But I dont want to use the yellow one if you dont like it!" "I like it fine," he said. "The question wasnt which one of these do you not hate, it was which one of these do you like best. I like them both. I like the green one best, but the yellow one is fine, too." "But you said you like the green," she said, thrusting the green pot at him. "I dont care either way, yellow is fine." She was still glaring at him. "Are you sure?" "Yes," he said, "I'm sure. Yellow. I love the yellow." "You dont have to lie to me, I want your honest opinion." "I mean it," he said, trying to contain himself. "The more I look at the yellow one, the more I like it. Its a nice yellow." "You like the yellow?" "Yes!" "You really like it?" "My god, yes!" Charlie bellowed. "I love it! I have never seen such a yellow! I can die a happy man now that I have seen that pot! Please put it in the kitchen!" With an exasperated sigh, he turned his attention back to the computer and began typing again. "Really?" Lauren held up the yellow pot and looked at it. Then she held up the green pot and looked at that one. "I dont know," she said. "I think I like the green one." She turned and walked out of the room. Five minutes later, some of her words filtered through to Charlie's brain. He stopped typing and looked towards the door. "What did you just say?" he shouted down the hall. "What?" came the reply from the kitchen. "What was that you just said about the oven?" "I didn't just say anything." "No," Charlie said, "I mean when you were in here. What was that you said about putting the pots in the oven?" A moment later, Lauren came into the room. "What the hell are you babbling about?" "You were just in here," said Charlie, "and you said something about putting those pots in the oven. What are you trying to do? Burn the house down?" Lauren's eyebrows crunched together as she scowled at him. "What is the matter with you?" she said. "I never said anything of the kind." "Yes you did," said Charlie. "I most certainly did not." "You did!" he shouted, waving his hands in the air. "You stood right there, holding some goddamned pots, and you said something about how they are supposed to go in the oven!" Lauren put her hands on her hips and pursed her lips together. "Charlie," she said slowly, "if you had been paying attention at all you would know that I didn't say that. What I said was that the green pot didn't match the color of the paint on the oven in the kitchen where the pot is going." Charlie scratched his head. "Oh," he said. "That's different." "Yes, dammit, it is." "Well, then, I'm sorry." Charlie turned back to his computer and began typing furiously. "That's the problem, right there," Lauren said, pointing at the keyboard. "That stupid thing. You're always on the computer. Your mind just disappears into the cosmos. When you're on the computer you're cosmic, Charlie." She tapped her foot impatiently behind him. "You pay more attention to that stupid computer than you do to me." "No, no," he said, not taking his eyes from the screen. "That's not true." "It is too!" "It isn't," he said. "Just last week we went somewhere together." Lauren folded her arms. "Really? Where?" "Um," said Charlie through the clackity-clack of his typing, "we went to that thing, you know. Downtown." "No, I don't know. Enlighten me." "That thing downtown. Dammit, Lauren, you know what I'm talking about. Don't do this to me." She shook her head. "You can't concentrate on this conversation while you type, can you?" "Sure I can." "Then where did we go?" Charlie's typing slowed down a bit. "Er, it was that store place. The one with the food." Lauren's mouth fell open. "The supermarket?" "Yeah, that's it." "Charlie," she said, "the supermarket is not a date. If you were paying attention to the conversation, you would know that. See, this is what I'm talking about." Charlie continued typing, his eyes intently fixed straight ahead. "Get off the computer and talk to me." "Yes, dear," he droned. Clickety, clack, clack. "Charlie, I mean it. Get off the computer." "Okay, okay," he replied, and then continued typing. Lauren stormed out of the room. Three minutes later, all the electricity in the house went dead. Charlie sat in disbelief, staring straight ahead and the monitor in front of him. He waited a full two minutes for the power to come back on before he concluded that it wouldn't come on just because he wanted it to, and that maybe he should see what was wrong. Stumbling around the house in the dark was not something Charlie was used to. His eyes were bad enough from staring at the screen all day, and in the dark he was like a mole, bumping into damn near everything he owned before he finally made it out the front door. Lauren was outside the old Victorian house, standing in front of the fuse box, pulling out the glass tubes one-by-one and smashing them onto the ground. "What the hell are you doing!" shouted Charlie. "Saving our marriage!" shouted Lauren. She began jumping up and down on the shattered fuses, grinding the glass bits into the cement. "Jesus, Lauren," said Charlie. "If you wanted me to get off the computer, all you had to do was say so." --- Luminary Coremaster The Death of Luminary Coremaster Floating above his crumpled, bleeding body, he saw that the Platypus was there to greet him. His confusion was relieved by the presence of this spiritual entity. "What happened?" Luminary asked. "How... I mean, why...?" "What do you remember?" asked the Platypus. "Um... I guess I remember Planet X... And Target... Where's A. Nonymous? Where's Archon?" "No... Remember after that," said the Platypus. "After? I... oh. Oh. Now I see. Is that over yet? Please tell me it's over!" Luminary pleaded. "Yes, it's over. Do you remember what happened?" "Well..." Luminary began. "It was something like this:" It was a fine day outside and Luminary Coremaster sped down the street on his hydraulic pogo stick, crushing small automobiles and singing a little tune as he went. Suddenly, from behind a parked hovercraft, an old lady wearing blue flower-printed titanium battle armor leapt to a fighting stance atop her atomic-powered Yugo. "Holy frijolie, it's Mrs. Hutchenson!" spat Luminary, who owed her 25 cents change from a lemonade stand he had as a small child when she had nothing but a half-dollar. "Get ready to rumble, dearie!" shouted Mrs. Hutchenson as she readied her grenade gattling gun on her shoulder and hooked up the optical laser site jack to her helmet. "Zoiks!" Luminary shouted as he leapt out of the way. But it was too late! Soon a shower of grenades came hailing down upon him like too many food crumbs spewing from the mouth of a hungry Dom DeLouise! It seemed as if all hope were lost! "That's not how it happened." "Huh?" Luminary stammered. "My friend, that's not what happened," the Platypus said again. "What? But, of course it was! It's kooky!" Luminary reiterated. "Luminary, you are blocking out the truth. Think harder." said the Platypus. "But, it's wacky! It's spiffy! It's the hip new craze that's sweeping the na---" "Luminary!" the Platypus shouted. "Stop it!" "Sorry." "Now. Do you remember the people involved?" "Kind of. I remember there was a girl." said Luminary. "What was her name?" asked the Platypus. "I... I can't remember! I don't even remember what color her hair was. I think we had some good times, but who knows. Did I ever meet her in person? Or did we hang out for years? I just don't know. Who can say?" Perhaps the hula-dancing man with yellow bangs could help me out. I hear that he does his karoke act every Tuesday night, except holidays, for hordes of Italian tourists who just can't seem to get enough of it. He also enjoys romping through strawberry patches in a giraffe costume with his wife Carlotta. However, Carlotta sometimes has a battle between her id and her psyche by the sea. Her brain will scream, "Crayons and spit! Crayons and spit!" until it collapses upon itself. "Is that important?" asked the Platypus. "Um... I'm not sure! Probably not. But... Look at my body! It's horrid! All crushed and bleeding, yuck. Not mutilated, but just... dead." Luminary gagged. "There, there. We'll get to the bottom of this." comforted the Platypus. "Do you remember a place?" "Why, yes! I remember... The City!" said Luminary. I was walking down the street, careful not to step on the broken glass or homeless people strewn about. I quickly pulled out my identification and fed it to a passing 3-B (Big Brother Bot) before it could arrest and subsequently annihilate me. I stepped into the tube and keyed my seventeen-digit pass code and was instantly whisked away to my flat, a small room barely big enough for a fold-out couch. Suddenly the wall lit up with the image of my section commander, demanding to know why I had left work 37 seconds early today. "It's a conspiracy!" I shouted back. "Well, just call me the Warren Commission," he retorted, as the laser turret in the corner turned to face me. Suddenly the tip began to glow, and instantly--- "That's not how it happened either," said the Platypus. "Are you sure? It seems recent to me," said Luminary. "I remember freeing the animals! Oh, the horrid experiments they were once subjected to!" "Nonetheless, this is not the reason," said the Platypus. "What else can you remember? Can you remember other people? Friends, perhaps?" "Yes! I remember Mr. Pube. He was a good friend. I also remember Null, another good comrade. And Murray Headroom was also very cool. In fact..." Let me tell you about the time that Yacub earned the nickname "Mr. Stringy". It was a brisk November -Q and everybody from the Santa Barbara BBS world was there! Bob Blaylock was there as usual, impressing the ladies with his Geiger counter, and Zeylan showed up in secret, dressed as Winston Churchill. Everybody giggled when the shaky, pubescent voice announced "Mr. Churchill, your large pepperoni with extra mushrooms is ready, sir," over the intercom. So anyway, Mike Swanson wasbusy fencing with Buccaneer, an event that kept endingswiftly for Mike's sake, and even The Sneezing Lion was there to juggle some of the 5-megabyte hard disks that Math Blaster had pulled out of archaic equipment for our amusement. I joined in, playing a silly medieval tune on my accordion while the Philosophical Wombat belted out bagpipe accompaniment. Suddenly, Mr. Pube, in true Tarintino fashion, showed up in his slick tailored black suit and whipped out a .45! He began firing into the crowd, to our amazement, but quickly quelled our nerves upon explaining that they were football jocks from the local high school. It suddenly occurred to Code Zero, that naughty little scamp, to disturb the sleeping Swagman who resided in the corner, mumbling things every now and then about tacos and the undergarments of someone named Bliss. Code Zero rallied together JSK, the ghost of Palmer Young, and Yacub, and the four proceeded to throw small anchovies at the snoring Swagman. Unbeknownst to the rest of us, Swagman was clutching his favorite prosthetic breast implant in hand during his slumber, and upon being woken up, thrust it forward in a startled motion, shouting, "She said she was 18!" Yacub was so close that the implant smashed into his face, exploding in a spray of silicon goo! The resulting photo taken by Colin Campbell, of Yacub with strands of slippery goo oozing down his face, earned him the whimsical nickname "Mr. Stringy"! As the -Q dragged on into the night, a drunken Dark Doctor X burst into the restaurant, looking something like a country music star, with his western hat, black overcoat, and long strands of dirty blond hair. "I need a woman!" he shouted to the all-male remainders of the group. Mike Swanson stopped crazy-gluing Bob Blaylock's hat to the ceiling, and shot JSK a nervous glance. In turn, JSK handed me a vintage 1960's oscilloscope and said, "Have fun, I'm outta here!" and took off. Norbus and Murray Headroom put away their chess set and inched toward the door. Even Zeylan was seen to pull down his derby, raise the collar of his overcoat, and adjust his bald wig and false nose. "I'm calling you out!" DDX shouted to the small country-style doll bolted to the wall. Receiving no response, he pulled out a shotgun and blew it to smithereens. "Who's next?" he shouted, as if anyone would respond. Like a bolt of lightning from the corner of the room, Mr. Pube was suddenly on DDX, "like flies on a rib roast" as Aidan would later be quoted as saying. "Drop it!" shouted Mr. Pube, as he cocked his pistol. DDX swerved around to retaliate, but it was too late! Mr. Pube fired a clean shot right through DDX's skull, but in turn DDX fell and misfired the shotgun right at me! I flew back against the wall, knocking down some of the country home-town plates tacked to it. "Lume!" shouted someone through the haze. "Are you okay?" My vision blurred a sticky red color, and my chest felt like an anvil had been dropped on it. I managed to barf up some bloody phlegm in response, and promptly--- "Died!" shouted Luminary. "That's it, then! That's how I died!" "Eh... Not quite, my friend," replied the Platypus. "What?" said Luminary. "No, that has to be it! It's all so clear to me now!" "Is it as clear as the previous scenarios?" asked the Platypus. "Wha...? Oh," said Luminary. "So, my friend," said the Platypus. "What else do you remember?" "There were others... It was hard to be friends with many of them, though. Some of them had strange motives. Or mental problems or something. But most of them were nice people. I think I took it all too seriously. I was lonely in that place. Where was I, anyway?" "That's what we're trying to determine," said the Platypus. "Do you remember a time?" "But, it was weird! Everything changed suddenly. My whole life was shattered. Suddenly the days of Target and Planet X were gone. I tried to keep up, but it was too expensive and the time delay was too long. So I resorted to snail mail..." "Snail what?" asked the Platypus. "I'm not sure, actually," answered Luminary. "That was strange... A reaction from another time." "Please continue." "So we wrote, but the letters became less and less frequent... Only A. Nonymous-- I mean, Omnipresent Being, kept up the communication. I was cut off from my reality. I became seriously depressed. I changed, even now I can never go back to the way I was!" "Yes, go on," said the Platypus. "But even then, even after that reality stopped, it continued somehow. But it stopped. I'm confused," said Luminary. "I know," said the Platypus. "But... What happened to me? I'm scared!" Luminary began to cry. "Where was I? What was that all about?" "I'm sorry, I truly am," said the Platypus. "You must know what's going on!" shouted Luminary in tears. "You have to know! Tell me the truth!" "Well," the Platypus said, "how can I put this so you could understand... it was... a clerical error." "Wha... what?" sniffed Luminary. "I'm truly sorry, we all are, really," said the Platypus. "A clerical error?" said Luminary. "If there's any way we can make it up to you---" "A clerical error?" repeated Luminary. "What do you mean, a clerical error? What are you talking about?" "Please, listen," said the Platypus. "Everything has been rectified, I've worked hard to correct this problem. I can assure you that nothing like this will happen again---" "So you're saying that my death was a clerical error?" said Luminary. "A cosmic mistake or something?" "Oh, no," said the Platypus. "Your death was unavoidable. I'm saying that the past six years were the error." "WHAT?!" "Again, I'm terribly sorry about this. You, ah... Were simply not supposed to... I mean, you weren't really..." "I wasn't supposed to what?" "Well, listen," said the Platypus. "Everything's fixed now. You'll feel better, I promise. Your life will fade away... A memory of the past rather than a proper existence... Do you see?" "No," said Luminary. Luminary's crumpled body on the ground began to glow a dull red. "You'll understand. Your reality will become a memory of something greater. A bigger picture of sorts," said the Platypus. "Did I really die, then?" asked Luminary. The glow on Luminary's body intensified to an orange, then yellow. "Oh, yes," said the Platypus. "You were most definitely killed off." "By what?" asked Luminary. The body began to glow white hot as licks of flame enveloped it. "You'll know soon enough," said the Platypus. "So... but... um," said Luminary. "Do I even get to say goodbye to everybody?" Luminary's body was a blinding pyre of heat. "Well," said the Platypus. "We don't normally allow that sort of thing. I'm sure you can understand." "Yeah," said Luminary. The heat subsided and Luminary's charred shell began to crumble, turning to ash in the wind. "But, ah... Considering the circumstances," said the Platypus, "I think it would be okay. Just this once." "Really?" asked Luminary. The last remnants of Luminary's ashes flittered away in the breeze, leaving no marks upon the ground. "Sure," said the Platypus. "But you can do that a little later. Come now, we have to go." "I know," said Luminary. "For there is much work to be done." --- Brian Rhinehart Wasteland: Tales of the Leveler (This article consists of digital artwork. It can be viewed in the online edition at http://www.swagazine.com/issue5/19.html on the World Wide Web.) --- Contributors AIRALIN "I continue to live and die and exist in the moment before the fall. There's not a bridge long enough to cross the lines I've made in my life. Sometimes all you have is to believe in a happy ending." [airalin@lclark.edu] BILL THE CAT Bill's flicked a lot of ashes, and sent them to their death; he's hid a lot of stashes, and held a lot of breath. He's blown his share of candles, defied a few descriptions; endured a lot of scandals, and caught some odd afflictions. He's made the cops suspicious, he gave his parents pause; he's doomed to cleaning dishes, and clutching at the straws. AcK! JILLIAN FIRTH Jillian Firth is a poet and librarian living in Cameron Park, California. She and husband Paul recently adopted three children. This is the second time Jill has been published in Swagazine. ELIZABETH GERMANIO "I'm a 22 year old student at the University of Cincinnati and am majoring in English Lit. and Women's Studies. My writing is inspired by the reality of my life and my destiny as a writer. I'm getting away from the darkness and into the light in my own life, and that inspires my writing at the moment." [germane@email.uc.edu] MICHAEL HOERMAN As an active writer and performance poet living in Joplin, Missouri, Michael writes: "I think extraordinary events should be written about with restraint and subtlety as the foundations of passion; that ordinary events should be magnified and examined; for the melodramas which surround individuals often become fantastic storms of pure emotion and undistorted wisdom." [bebop@ipa.net] LIZ KANE Liz Kane is a system analyist/programmer by day and an artist / writer by night. She lives in Philadelphia. When she finds herself trapped by her employers demands in cities with out her brushes, she tends to write her fustrations down on paper in the form of short stories and poems. [lkane@ix.netcom.com] LUMINARY COREMASTER Luminary Coremaster was born of ice and died a horrible death. He was best known for making decorative greeting cards out of bits of macaroni and string that he found around the house, which he would paste together into whimsical collages of cats and dogs. He is also remembered for his amusing anticdotes regarding other peoples' friends, his unquenchible thirst for water, and his habit of falling to the ground, clutching his skull, screaming that his life was a sham. MORDRAK "It scares me sometime that I can see the bass dance out from the speakers. The projections of sound into a visual form. God, I need more sleep, more control, more addicitons. Addictions to feed the parched soul. I have been contained too long. I must be free, I must find out who that clown with the purple suit is that keeps following me around campus and persecuting me with chants of, 'FATTY FATTY FAT FAT!' I hate clowns." [mordrak@armory.com] LAWRENCE NORTON Lawrence Norton is a high school student living in a small town in Iowa. He has been writing for over three years and this marks his second appearance in the Swagazine. Lawrence is working on a book, as well as a project combining poetry with multimedia for a less monosensory experience that can be seen and heard through the Internet. [lo_down@hotmail.com] A. O'NEIL "I'm a native Californian who has been temporarily transplanted in the tropics. I'm also a working actress. What motivates me to write creatively...? Little things. I'm deeply in love with all things passionate and sensual -- not just sexual, mind you, but the things that make you catch your breath and hold a moment with you indefinitely. I want to feel the world -- in my heart; on my skin; through my eyes. Poetry and stagework are the only two ways I can fully communicate the hold the world has on me, so I do my best to let my voice be heard." [susano@panama.c-com.net] PSYCHE If Psyche were stuck on a desert island, and could choose one book to read for the rest of eternity, it would be the thesaurus. She resides in a crack house in Santa Cruz where she recites poetry in sewer systems and on rooftops. As she is also plotting the Revolution, Psyche would be most honored if you would think of her every time you see burning tires in the street. [psyche@deeptht.armory.com] BRIAN RHINEHART "Once in while there comes a time when one of us falls from grace, to this end he never looks back for too long. Yet the past has always held a place in his mind; a source of inspiration & torment, fondness & regret. Such is my story. Art is my most vital means of expression, whether it be paintings, sculpture, music or the medium of new media." [gecko@silcom.com] SWAGMAN "I'm born of South Dakota farming people, second generation off the land. I've been in Santa Barbara for over half my life. I came to Santa Barbara in 1972 from central Australia. My move here was my 20th relocation and I was 20 years old when I got here. I've lived in 10 states and 3 years in England which hardly prepared me for the 11 months I lived in San Bernardino back in 1964. Of all the places I've ever been, this is certainly one of them." [Swagman@worldnet.att.net] DOUG TANOURY Doug Tanoury grew up in Detroit and still lives in the area with his wife and three children. The titles for his Racing Form Poems were taken from the names of horses in a race results. About his craft, Doug writes: "Poetry has always been a return to childhood for me. It allows me to breathe magic and myth into the mundane." [dtanoury@ix.netcom.com] BRIAN ZEPP JAMIESON "I write because if I didn't, something very vital to my being would shrivel up and die. It isn't an obligation, though. Never think that. It is a joy. As I write to live, I live to rework Harley-Davidson cliches. Looking over my submission, I remember reading 'Mehetibel and Archie' last summer, and I think some of it may have worn off, so let's give Don Marquis a cite for probably subverting me at one point or another. As I wrote it, I thought about Ayn Rand's record for longest sentence, 686 words. I broke that easily, and only broke as many grammatical rules in so doing. And if Bob Blaylock asks, tell him, yes, it's a code, and yes, it's about him." [zepp@snowcrest.net] ZEYLAN "Saying you don't like or haven't been influenced by the Beatles is like saying you don't like sex. Nobody will believe you, nobody will be impressed and you'll end up sleeping alone." [zeylan@jamesclark.com] --- SUBMISSION INFORMATION Swagazine originated within the online community in Santa Barbara at a now defunct BBS we knew as Swagland. The personalities who graced our electronic medium shared messages of such considerable talent that we decided to pool our efforts, take on the world, and start a magazine of our own. Now, several years later, the BBS world has migrated to the Internet and so has our publication. While it is still our intent to spotlight local talent from the Santa Barbara area, we will consider submissions from anyone, anywhere. If you would like to submit your poetry, prose or artwork to the next edition of the Swagazine, we would enjoy the opportunity to review it for consideration. Guidelines for Submission Issues are usually published twice a year (Winter and Summer), depending on the number of quality submissions and the editor's workload. There is no limitation on style, content or subject matter. We accept individual poems or several poems to be displayed seperately or together, letters (serious, silly or literary), short prose, essays concerning matters of interest to writers, or anything that's just good to read. Writing and self-expression should be fun, and we appreciate work that reflects this in its execution. If it was created honestly and makes the reader feel glad they took the time to read it, we want it. We desire to print only previously unpublished work. Any submissions which are concurrently submitted elsewhere will not be considered for publication. We expect that if we confirm acceptance of your work, it will not be withdrawn in favor of another publication at a later date. If you publish your accepted work elsewhere, we do ask that you site Swagazine as the first place of publication. Submissions of poetry and prose should be in standard ASCII format as part of the message body -- attachments in alternate word-processor formats will be sent to the bottom of the consideration pile. Artwork submissions should be in GIF or JPG format for easy display on the web site. Please limit image files to 20k-40k in size. Please include with your submissions a short (2-3 sentences) biographical description of yourself which may be printed in the same issue as your work. You may list any other publications which have showcased your talent. If you have a small scanned photo of yourself that you would like included with your bio, please submit it in GIF or JPG format. Please send your submissions, questions or comments in e-mail to submissions@swagazine.com. We will make every effort to respond to you promptly. Any comments we receive regarding an your work will be forwarded to you, unless we receive notice from you asking us to not do so. Copyright Statement and Disclaimer Submission of material does not guarantee publication. Any author whose work is accepted for any particular issue grants Swagazine the right to use the work for the issue of our choosing, as well as one-time rights to publication with the option of reprinting the accepted work in a hard-copy anthology issue. All works published in Swagazine are copyrighted one time only, and online publication counts as use of First North American Serial Rights. All contributors maintain full rights to any of their works presented in the Swagazine. No portion of Swagazine or any work published in in its pages may be reproduced in any form without the written permission of the creator of the content and notification of the Swagazine editor. This includes the graphics and design elements of the website itself. Ordering Information Swagazine is an online publication first and foremost, but every so often we do get around to the printed version. For complete details on how you can obtain a paperback copy of this issue, please visit our ordering page at http://www.swagazine.com/ordering.html on the World Wide Web. ----- SWAGAZINE FIVE http://www.swagazine.com/issue5/ Issue design, layout and editing by Zeylan. Cover and foliage artwork (online edition) by Brian Rhinehart. Copyright © 1998 by Swagazine, All rights reserved.